Sentences with phrase «nothing upon lies»

Not exact matches

It's not just a type of ideology, it's a false ideology built upon lies, delusion, and irrational thinking and is nothing but a big con game, a sociopathic type of ideology that damages a person's ability to see reality clearly and to process it rationally.

Consider this... a person goes to college, gets a four year degree in archaeology (or some antiquities preservation analog); spends summers sifting through sand and rock and gravel, all the while taking graduate level classes... person eventually obtains the vaunted PhD in archaeology... then works his / her tail off seeking funding for an archeological excavation, with the payoff being more funding, and more opportunities to dig in the dirt... do you think professional archaeologists are looking hard for evidence of the Exodus on a speculative basis... not a chance... they know their PhD buys them nothing more than a job at Tel Aviv Walmart if they don't discover and publish... so they write grants for digs near established sites / communities, and stay employed sifting rock in culturally safe areas... not unless some shepard stumbles upon a rare find in an unexpected place do you get archeological interest and action in remote places... not at all surprising that the pottery and other evidence of the Exodus and other biblical events lie waiting to be discovered... doesn't mean not there... just not found yet...

In the morning, when the people came to the temple, seeking to know what evil had been done to bring these troubles upon them, they found nothing but the smallest mustard seed lying near the altar.

If nothing else, the Salvatore Ferragamo fall / winter 2016 campaign is a delight to watch; but on upon closer inspection has served to develop the enduring ethos of timeless style that lies at the heart of the Florence based luxury brand.

, you are lying on the floor of your place looking up, a small draft runs through the room, between the door and the window, and all things seem perfectly still, wind only disturbs concrete in imperceptible ways, or it may take millions of years to be noticed and, as the air runs through the space, all your plants move and all is animated and all is alive somehow, and here are the thoughts of all men in all ages and lands, they are not original with me, and that wind upon your plants is the common air that bathes the globe, and we have no ambitions of universalism, and I'm glad we don't, but the particles of air bring traces of pollen and are charged with electricity, desert sand, maybe sea water, and these particles were somewhere else before they were dragged here, and their route will not end by the door of this house, and if we tell each other stories, one can imagine that they might have been bathed by this same air, regrouped and recombined, recharged as a vehicle for sound, swirling as it moves, bringing the sound of a drum, like that Kabuki story where a fox recognizes the voice of its parents as a girl plays a drum made out of their skin, or any other event, and yet I always felt your work never tells stories, I tend to think that narrative implies a past tense, even if that past was just five seconds ago, one second ago was already the past, and human memory is irrelevant in geological time, plants and fish know not what tomorrow will bring, neither rocks nor metal do, but we all live here now, and we all need visions and we all need dreams, and as long as your metal sculptures vibrate they are always in the Present, and their past is a material truth alien to narrative, but well, maybe narrative does not imply a past tense at all and they are writing their own story while they gently move and breathe, and maybe nothing was really still before the wind came in, passing through the window as if through an irrational portal to make those plants dance, but everything was already moving and breathing in near complete silence, and if you're focused enough you can feel the pulse of a concrete wall and you can feel the tectonic movements of the earth, and you can hear the magma flowing under our feet and our bones crackling like a wild fire, and you can see the light of fireflies reflected in polished metal, and there is nothing magical about that, it is just the way things are, and sometimes we have to raise our voice because the music is too loud and let your clothes move to a powerful bass, sound waves and bright lights, powerful like the sun, blinding us if we stare for too long, but isn't it the biggest sign of love, like singing to a corn field, and all acts of kindness that are not pitiful nor utilitarian, that are truly horizontal as everything around us is impregnated with the deadliest violence, vertical and systemic, poisonous, and sometimes you just want to feel the sun burning your skin and look for life in all things declared dead, a kind of vitality that operates like corrosion, strong as the wind near the sea, transforming all things,